Past and Present
by Under0The0Sea
Summary: Mycroft and Sherlock's relationship in the past and in the present. Each chapter will have a story from the past which will relate, either directly or indirectly, to a story or drabble in the present. *Contains series 2 spoilers*
1. Fall  Past

_A re-write of one of my stories over on the Sherlock Holmes fandom. Contains spoilers for A Scandal in Belgravia. A look at Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship in the past and the present. _

_For TadPole11 who (quite without realising) gave me the kickstart I needed to start writing again after a very long time. I hope you enjoy this._

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><p>Fall<p>

Sherlock scrambled up and onto the branch, wincing as the abrasive bark grazed his arms. Pausing on top of the branch he looked down and experienced a wonderful rush that had a lot to do with the height and element of danger and even more to do with the fact he'd been specifically forbidden to climb this tree.

The highest tree in the garden… not allowed…never thought he could do anything… proving them wrong… higher and higher…

"Sherlock Holmes!"

Surprise caused Sherlock's grip to slacken slightly and he nearly fell. He clutched slightly desperately at the branch and, after getting a firm enough hold to feel secure, dragged himself up onto the branch. Glaring pre-emptively, Sherlock peered down at his sibling and was pleasantly surprised to see how small Mycroft looked. It was funny; from this perspective Mycroft was so small he almost seemed unimportant…

"Mycroft" Sherlock called out smugly, "look how high I am."

"I can see how high you are." came Mycroft's irritable reply, filtering up through the crisscross of branches, "Now _get_ _down_. You were specifically forbidden to climb this tree Sherlock, as you well know."

Sherlock, with the stubbornness typical of the Holmes family, chose to follow the age old tradition of ignoring Mycroft, and with some measure of vindictive glee reached for the next branch.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft sounded exasperated now. Sherlock grinned as he reached up for the next branch. Mycroft often sounded exasperated in his interactions with Sherlock but it was still something Sherlock relished hearing. No one else could break through Mycroft's icy cold control enough to make him exasperated. Anyway it wasn't like he didn't know what he was doing, as Mycroft no doubt thought.

"Sherlock if you don't get down now, I will confiscate your microscope!" Mycroft's voice was beginning to sound far away. Looking down Sherlock was surprised to see how far he had climbed and again he felt the dizzying thrill of danger. He scrambled up another branch, high on the danger and also on the knowledge that he was getting on his sibling's nerves.

"Sherlock, if you took a moment to actually pay attention to the world around you, you'd notice that that branch you are standing on is cracking. And I am not going to be sympathetic when you fall and break your leg." There was something else in Mycroft's voice now. Underneath the mixture of exasperation, indifference and cold fury there was something else, something that sounded oddly like… panic?

Sherlock stood, eliciting an irritated _Sherlock!_ from Mycroft, and walked carefully along the branch towards the trunk. When the branch didn't break he jumped on it, experimentally and then waited for Mycroft to speak.

"Sherlock, stop that!" Yes there were definite elements of panic in his voice. Mycroft panicking? Mycroft, who was always calm, always in control, always detached?

"Get down!" Mycroft screamed, sounding furious but also a little scared. "Sherlock you're going to fall!" Sherlock laughed slightly hysterically and carried on jumping up and down, filled with vindictive pleasure at knowing that for once it was he who was in control, not Mycroft. Sherlock was in the tree he had been forbidden to climb and there was nothing that Mycroft could do about it, bar climbing up after Sherlock. And Mycroft wouldn't do that. No, Sherlock was the one with the upper hand this time, and he was going to savour every moment.

"I'm not going to fall." he half yelled, half laughed, goading Mycroft. Mycroft had thought Sherlock wouldn't be able to climb the tree but Mycroft, perhaps for the first time in his life, had been wrong. He heard Mycroft begin to reply but his furious words were cut off by a dreadful creaking, cracking sound and suddenly Sherlock's world lurched.

And then he was falling, tumbling through the air, and the branches were scratching and swiping at him, and time seemed to be both sped up and slowed down. He couldn't see anything, his eyes were too tightly shut but he could _feel _that he was falling and it was the most horrible, terrifying feeling. His arms shot out blindly, instinctively and by pure chance managed to grab onto to a branch.

Sherlock hugged his lifeline as tightly as possible. He was shaking, still fearful from his short free fall, and although he was terrified of losing his hold and falling again he lacked the strength to pull himself up onto the branch and relative safety. And then he remembered that Mycroft was watching and that he had to prove to Mycroft that he could do this and so he heaved himself slowly up onto the branch. He paused for a second and when the branch didn't crack underneath him, he laughed. He had done it. He hadn't fallen. He was _safe_. And he'd shown Mycroft that he was far more capable than Mycroft ever gave him credit for.

Sherlock jumped up, his fear and caution almost forgotten in his moment of glee.

"See!" he gloated "I'm fine. You thought I wouldn't be able to do it, but I'm fine" he laughed again and looked up. He could see the broken stump, where the branch had been only moments before, not too far above him. He hadn't even fallen very far!

"I told you I could do it!" he laughed, "I told you!" The only reply was the sound of the wind as it picked up pace in the fading light.

Sherlock's laughter turned hollow and then slowly died leaving behind a silence that was somehow deafening. Where was Mycroft's retort, the sarcastic reply, the order to _get down_? Sherlock shivered, beginning to sense for the first time that something was wrong.

He edged along the branch, the elation, and therefore the confidence, that had filled him only moments before gone. He wrapped an arm securely around the trunk of the tree and closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath to steady himself he opened them again and looked down. The ground was a horribly long way down and his view of it was obscured by the dark branches that slashed across his vision.

Where was Mycroft? Why wasn't he replying? Sherlock scanned the ground, struggling to make anything out in the dying light. His heart stuttered as he eventually spotted his sibling lying awkwardly on the ground. And, lying innocently next to him, Sherlock could just about make out a broken branch. The world lurched as the horrifying truth of what had happened slammed into Sherlock and he stumbled as though he'd been hit. He tried to call out to his sibling but his voice died in his throat and he choked on his own words.

Sherlock knew he should go for help but he couldn't move, couldn't even drag his eyes from his sibling's still form. The world began to spin out of control but Sherlock remained frozen, trembling, unable to do anything except watch until, eventually, the encroaching darkness took Sherlock's view of his brother away from him.

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><p><em>Thanks for reading.<em>

_Comments/suggestions/constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated if you spare the time _

_xxx_


	2. Fall Present

Fall - Present

He'd told John everything was fine then he'd gone into his room and slammed the door. He shakily reached for a cigarette before remembering he'd quit and that his cigarettes had been replaced by nicotine patches. Which was fine, but there was something about having the cigarette in his hand that was comforting and it was the comfort he was seeking really. That or oblivion. He thought about doing the human thing and drowning his sorrows in a glass or three of alcohol.

But all the alcohol was in the kitchen and he'd told John everything was fine. Walking back to his room with a bottle in his hand would contradict that statement. And anyway he _was_ fine.

_Family is all we have. _

Unbidden Mrs Hudson's words crept into Sherlock's head. Of course Mycroft had instantly told Mrs Hudson to shut up; family wasn't something the Holmes' _did_. They'd pretend every now and then, but it would always be just that: pretending. And besides, as Mycroft had said: caring is not an advantage.

A door creaked somewhere in the house and he actually jumped. The slight noise shouldn't have bothered him but, for the briefest of moments, the sound could have been a carbon copy of the awful creak of the branch as it cracked. His world lurched and for a second he was convinced he was falling. An image of Mycroft lying on the ground, so still, so lifeless, burnt itself into his vision and an encore of the terrible fear that had engulfed his younger self, attacked him, making him sway. He closed his eyes and tried to force away the childhood memories that had invaded and cluttered his perfectly ordered, clinical mind.

After a moment of effort the memories retreated back to their place in an obscure, seldom visited corner of his mind. In their place was a dull sense of panic and he wondered just how close he'd come to losing the lone person who saw the world in the same way he did. It had occurred to him at the time, of course, but to his younger self his sibling had seemed so infallible, leading to Mycroft obtaining a kind of eternal, forceful presence that couldn't be deleted or removed. Mycroft never seemed like someone who could be lost, not when his controlling personality dominated any situation he wandered into.

Sherlock had hurt his sibling those long years ago, back when Mycroft was still young and it was still relatively easy to harm him. But they were all grown up now and some of the rules had changed; a fall wasn't the same anymore. Before a fall had meant something physical: Sherlock had fallen, the branch had fallen, Mycroft had fallen to the ground. And consequently the resulting injury was physical (a broken arm and a concussion on Mycroft's part and a few grazes on his.) However he struggled to imagine the adult Mycroft being hurt in such a way: it required a sense of humanity which his sibling had been working on losing for years.

No, a fall meant something quite different now. Now a fall was more synonymous with a fall from grace. How narrowly a fall had been averted this time.

It was his fault again. _He'd_ broken the code and handed it over to the enemy. This time though, there was a question of who would do the falling and who would be the one to watch, helpless or unwilling, to lend a hand.

Would it have been Mycroft who would have taken the fall? It seemed unlikely. Mycroft had too much power and was too great an asset for the government to let him go willing. And although Mycroft had admitted to orchestrating the way his path had crossed with _hers_, it didn't seem enough to knock Mycroft from his position on high. Mycroft had merely been a victim of a betrayal.

No, he suspected that it the fall would have been his and perhaps this was fair. It wasn't Mycroft who fell for a textbook ruse, wasn't Mycroft who had handed over government secrets. He wondered what would have happened to him had it been let out what he had done. Prison, most probably, and a lifetime of dull routine and excruciating boredom. A fate worse than death in many respects, although it was a fate he had walked into and therefore chosen for himself. And yet, before he had deduced _her_ password and thus rendered _her_ plan useless, Mycroft had shown a surprising willingness to keep him from his fate. His sibling had been about to pay _her_ off which would essentially stopped anyone linking Sherlock Holmes with Bond Air's failure.

He half wondered whether this had been part of her plan all along. Mycroft had seemed oddly keen to keep Sherlock's involvement as quiet as possible. Although this was more likely the potential embarrassment on Mycroft's part of admitting to the rest of the government that Mycroft's younger sibling was a security risk. And besides for her to use him to blackmail Mycroft implied that Mycroft gave a damn what happened to him. And that simply wasn't true.

Caring is not an advantage. Not to a high functioning sociopath and a government secret keeper.

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><p><em>Thanks for reading. <em>

_Reviews are greatly appreciated._

_xxx_


	3. Wake Past

Wake - Past

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><p>"Myyyyyyyy-croft!"<p>

The rebarbative whining cut to the center of his headache and he opened his eyes, all the better to glare at his sibling, and instantly regretted it; the light seemed to explode in front of his eyes and his head protested with a sharp burst of pain. He shut his eyes quickly, sinking further back into his pillows, hissing lightly.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock's shrill tones made him wish for silence_._ After a pause, which was completely devoid of Sherlock's voice or any other sound, he thought (foolishly) that his wish had been granted but thenthere was a loud scrape that sent shivers crawling down Mycroft's spine and another sharp stab of pain shoot through his head like a laser. That alone would have been enough to irritate him but there was also his state of mental haziness to add to his growing frustration: although he tried to remember the reason he was in this pitiful state, his head felt thick and fuzzy and the information kept eluding him.

The lack of mental clarity frustrated him to no end. His mental capabilities were so precious, so important. They were all he relied on and without them he (and everything he was) was lost. He opened his eyes, slowly this time, and found that the room was now in semi darkness. He tried to look at his watch but found, with some surprise, that his right arm was securely wrapped in a cast. Yet another sign he wasn't functioning at his usual high capacity; how had he not noticed his bound arm immediately?

"Mycroft?" Sherlock repeated. His tone may have been shrill and obnoxious as per usual, but now Mycroft could take note of his siblings expression he could tell that Sherlock was worried and perhaps even slightly guilty.

He shut his eyes to process this information. He knew that Sherlock's uncharacteristic display of guilt had to mean _something_ if only he could stop his head feeling so cloudy for long enough to deduce the meaning.

At seven years of age Sherlock had yet to show guilt for anything. Not when he nearly set the house alight (who had given him those matches?) in an 'experiment' with Mycroft's school books. Not when he had broken Mycroft's torch (that was the last time Mycroft left his bedroom door unlocked) as it 'walked the plank' out Sherlock's bedroom window on the third floor. Not even when Sherlock tried to put the cat in the washing machine intending to leave it there to 'see what would happen' (it was lucky Mycroft had wandered in and was able to stop the experiment before it started.) So why was it that Sherlock was practically radiating guilt?

At least Mycroft's long-term memory appeared to be intact; he could recall and catalogue every single one of Sherlock's 'experiments' and misdemeanors and all the times he was just generally being an obnoxious brat. However he still couldn't, for the life of him, remember why he had this headache and why his arm was in a cast. He thought back, frustration increasing as he struggled to come up with any sort of answer. Was this what thinking was like for normal people? He was used to lightning fast deductions: this, this was like wading through treacle or trying to get the old computer Sherlock had been given to keep him quiet, to accomplish the simple task of opening a document.

"Myy-croft!" Sherlock, unused to being ignored, had resorted to shaking Mycroft's arm in an attempt to get some sort of response out of his sibling. Apparently the jolting was some sort of catalyst for Mycroft's mind as the memories (as well as his headache) came flooding back in a rush: Sherlock in the tree, Sherlock jumping on the branch, that horrible creak, then watching Sherlock fall and the horrible, helpless, hopeless feeling that grew as Sherlock crashed earthward. And then blackness, nothingness, a complete absence of memory which indicated quite clearly that this must have been the point at which he obtained his broken arm and concussion.

At first Mycroft felt an influx of profound relief at his brother's apparent good health and wellbeing (which was not something that usually correlated with falling from a great height out of a tree) and then, following just as quickly, a flood of anger at his brother's carelessness. The anger turned swiftly to fury; he didn't need to be a Holmes to deduce that the cause of all his discomfort was Sherlock. In all likelihood his headache was the direct result of the branch Sherlock broke connecting with his skull and the broken arm was probably the product of an awkward fall.

All this in a matter of seconds and Sherlock still had his arm in a tight grasp. Mycroft opened his eyes to glare at the little brat and to yell at him for being so stupid. He jerked out of Sherlock's grasp and watched as Sherlock drew back surprise written clearly on his face.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Mycroft would never know what made him say it. He was seldom impulsive, seldom so rash. And he never did things without thinking, why would he? Thinking was his talent, the thing he excelled at and to not make use of his talent would be foolish.

Somehow though, it was worth it. Worth it to watch as Sherlock shrank back, unmasked fear clear in his eyes. He'd meant to remedy it the second the words tumbled out of his mouth. He should have just laughed at Sherlock's reaction, told him off for climbing the bloody tree in the first place and then evicted him (forcibly if necessary) from his room so he could recover in peace.

Should have done. But there was something about the uncertainty in Sherlock's eyes that was so vindictively thrilling that any hope of diffusing the situation before it had the chance to explode in their faces was lost. Sherlock, who could have been the poster boy for Annoying-Younger-Siblings-Who-Think-They-Know-It-All-United, was looking _uncertain_. It gave Mycroft that complete control that he possessed in every aspect of his life that didn't have Sherlock in it; for once, Mycroft had some kind of power over his younger sibling. And he was going to enjoy it for as long as he could.

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><p><em>Thanks for reading. <em>

_Comments and suggestions greatly appreciated if you can spare the time._

_xxx_


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